


Kizukazu Ni

by Oyakata_Manya



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Drabble-esque, F/M, M/M, Madara-centric, Pain, Unrequited Love, Weddings, there’s not much to this one I’ll be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oyakata_Manya/pseuds/Oyakata_Manya
Summary: “Do you love her? Uzumaki Mito.”“I will, eventually.”
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	Kizukazu Ni

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow naruto fics always manage to give me grief. I have so much passion for hashimada, really I do, but writing anything for them has proven to be far more difficult than I anticipated.
> 
> I have bigger, grander plans for these two. For now, I hope this is still enjoyable.

The arrival of winter in Konohagakure comes softly; the barest hint of a chill in the air, the darkening, crisping of leaves as they flutter to the dusty ground. With winter comes newness; new resolve for the clansmen of the village, and for its founders, strange, new connections. 

The first snow of the season falls on Hashirama’s wedding day. 

It’s almost too perfect, Madara thinks. The camellias are open, stark against the glittering whiteness of the silent snowfall and if he didn’t know better he’d be convinced the man planned this from the very beginning. 

_You’re my oldest friend. You’ll do me the honors and join me on my special day, won’t you?_

Ah, but the notion burns acid in his mouth. Madara swallows it back down, buries it in the swell of dark, broiling uncertainties that stir below his guts. He feels dizzy and lightheaded. He won’t think of it; he won’t. 

_I… Alright, Hashirama. I’ll go._

They hold the event at the Senju main house. Hashirama isn’t there to greet him when he steps foot inside the gate; he is likely still inside, composing himself and preparing his vows.  
  
  


Hushed whispers echo every step Madara takes further onto the property, eyes flicker after his every move. Like this, without Hashirama at his side, he is little more than a stranger in a strange place. His mind buzzes. Beneath his thoughts, he wonders what he’s even doing here. 

_Excellent! I knew you’d agree. Oh, Madara, it’ll be wonderful!_

The night prior he’d stayed up drinking; it isn’t something he’s wont to do, not typically, not when the thought of relinquishing control, the thought of the things he might _do_ makes his hands grow clammy and his bones grow cold; but he’s so alone and the bottle offered company. 

Now though; now, he regrets it. His head is swimming, his throat dry as grit. He squints Izuna’s eyes against the blinding, gleaming brightness of the snow and the pure white sky. 

_Wonderful? In what way?_

There are several dozen Senju and Uzumaki crowded around the main house, milling about and murmuring beneath their breath. He wonders how many of those murmurs are about him, what they could possibly have to say. _A demon. A warmonger. Ripped out his own brother’s eyes._ Bile bubbles up his throat. _How dare he taint this sacred day._

_The_ village, _Madara. I can finally start a family—I can have sons, here in the village; sons that won’t have to know the horrors of war. Madara, we_ both _can. Isn’t that wonderful?_

Again, Madara wonders why he even came here at all; this is a ceremony of the village, and the village does not love him. Him, the eternal folk devil, the boogeyman that creeps and slithers through the shadows at night. 

He has no place here, no reason to be at this event at all. 

_Hnn. Are you certain of that?_

Izuna’s eyes blur; Madara’s head spins. He digs his gloved fingers into his palm and turns to leave. 

_Certain? Of what?_

He was such an _idiot—_

_Your sons. You can’t be certain that they won’t live through war—Hashirama, what if we were wrong? What if the village wasn’t the answer?_

“Leaving, Uchiha?”

Madara freezes in his tracks. 

The hot flush of humiliation ices down his spine. He knows that voice, that acrid chakra. At his back stands Izuna’s murderer. 

“What does it matter to you?” He bites out. His voice cracks like firewood, ash in his mouth. 

Senju Tobirama merely snorts. “It doesn’t.” Then he shifts on his feet, sandals scuffing in the snow. “Ani-ja wanted you here, did he not?”

Madara hates him. Oh, Holy Indra, does he hate him. Izuna’s sharingan burns behind his eyelids. He could kill Tobirama right now—he could, he could swivel on his feet and catch him in genjutsu, could act out every errant, violent fantasy that has come to him in the late hours of the evening, at twilight when he thinks of Izuna. He could—

_Don’t think like that. We’ve dreamt of this village for_ years _, Madara. It’s okay. You can let yourself be happy, now._

But he doesn’t. 

Instead he says, “Hashirama has much to think about today. He will hardly notice if there’s one member missing from the audience.”

_Happy?_

“You underestimate how much he thinks of you.” Says Tobirama, liquid bitterness flowing like an undercurrent beneath the words. Thinly veiled envy. He adds, “You, who demands his attention and distracts him from what he must do.”

Madara’s guts churn. He feels nauseous. Somewhere in the distance, the gleam of bells rings through the air. He can’t remember where he is, why he came here in the first place. 

_Yes, Madara. Happiness. You know, smiling and laughing and the sort. I’m inclined to think you’ve never heard of the concept your whole life._

_You underestimate how much he thinks of you._ And those are just the words he’s been wanting to hear all day, aren’t they? But they’re untrue. They have to be, because if they weren’t then Hashirama would be right here next to him, he wouldn’t be inside, preparing to _marry—_ wouldn’t be marrying—

_Oh, eat me. Just because some of us aren’t wasting our days with useless frivolities like gambling and drinking doesn’t mean we don’t know happiness._

“‘Demands his attention?’” Madara spits, black bile in his mouth. “I never did _anything_ of the sort.” He’s slipping, dizzy unclear consciousness sliding down a dark and dank slopes tunnel. “The only one who _demands_ anything is Mi—”

_How cruel! And I take it poking fun at me is what makes you happy, then?_

Madara swallows. 

Silence hangs in the air, like the baggy dark clouds before a storm. 

He’s such an _idiot_. 

_Happy enough._

They’ve garnered a small crowd by now. Red-headed Uzumaki and dark-eyed Senju encircle the two of them. Watching them. Listening. Witnessing. 

_I should have suspected as much._

Madara doesn’t stick around to hear what Tobirama has to say next. Somewhere a bell chimes; a voice rings out but Madara can’t make out the words. 

_Hashirama… are_ you _happy?_

He feels Hashirama’s chakra appear a distance behind him, warm and enveloping, inviting. They must be starting the ceremony. Madara can’t be bothered to stay; there is tar lodged in his throat, blocking his lungs. 

_Happy? Of course I am! I’m getting married tomorrow, after all._

His vision blurs against the snow, Izuna’s eyes grow damp. Inwardly he curses. By the time he makes his way back out the main gate, tear streaks mar his face. 

_Do you love her? Uzumaki Mito._

He stops. Stands alone in the central street of Konohagakure. Silent snow falls around him. Inside the Senju compound, Hashirama is being wed to a woman, and all of the guests know that Madara envies her. 

Shame burns him like ice, dripping liquid hot down his spine. He feels like throwing up, the last dredges of the previous night’s sake knocking at his throat. 

_I will, eventually. She’s a lovely girl; smart and skilled._

He lets himself. He heaves onto the clean white snow, dry and painful. His trachea tears itself apart, the taste of acid vile on his tongue. 

So what if the village knows he loves Hashirama; he’s been long since scorned as nothing more than the bane of it. It doesn’t matter; something this small, this irrelevant, means little in the face of every other humiliation. 

His brother is dead and buried some two-hundred kilometers south of here while his killer walks free; his clan has abandoned him, tossed him away like an old, rusted weapon, no longer needed in peacetime.

He’s so alone; Indra forbid the village give him any ideas. Come spring, he might just act on them. 

  
  
—  
  
  
  


_I see. If that’s the case, then I wish you happiness, Hashirama._

.


End file.
